Frank glanced despondently towards Charles and then at his own patient. His heart had been at the bottom of his stomach since the day before and it had actually sunk further from there. Self-pity enveloped him and he could hear himself gulp. Yesterday hadn't been nearly as horrible as today, and yet, here he was, using the scalpel to preserve a life and not take his own. He'd missed Margaret so badly this past year, so badly that he found himself craving just a reminder of her body, her smell. He recalled his impulsive actions after being rejected by Margaret. In a way, he mused, he'd sealed his own fate.

Frank was left standing motionless in the center of the compound, his jaw opened slightly as he watched Margaret carry her bags to her tent. The driver of the jeep started the vehicle up and drove it away without him so much as acknowledging the loud rumbling or the dust that flew up behind it. He watched his former lover carefully as she discovered the padlock on her tent door, and saw her stomp her foot in annoyance. So she hadn't put the padlock on the door. That was a small relief.

Margaret left her bags in front of her door and stomped off towards Klinger's office, unmindful of the presence of Frank across the compound…

When Margaret returned with a key to Colonel Potter's padlock, her bags were missing from in front of her tent. Immediately she proceeded to the V.I.P. tent and very carefully attempted to open the door, only to find it locked. With a roar, she kicked the door open and found Frank on the bed, sniffing her unmentionables. His eyes went wide and he dropped the items as she stomped into the tent.

"You pervert!" she screamed shrilly, shoving the key into the pocket of her trousers as she prepared to confront him. He stood up and attempted to snuggle her, but was shoved forcefully away. "How disgusting, smelling my personal belongings!"

"I was doing nothing of the sort," he replied with a scoff, sitting back down on the bed. "I was checking them for explosives. You can't trust any of these squinty-eyes, even in Tokyo. Remember Pearl Harbor?"

Her eyes narrowed at him in utter frustration.

"I remember Pearl Harbor and there were no underwear bombs detonated that day. Now, get away from my stuff or I'm going to detonate a grenade in your empty head!"

He stuck out his lip as best he could in a sort of pout.

"I'm hurt, Margaret. You used to love my head."

"That was before I realized it was missing a brain!"

He moved closer to her, sitting like a schoolboy.

"Don't you remember the discipline we tried to instill here, Margaret? Have you forgotten good, old-fashioned blind patriotism?"

She shook her head, crossing her arms as she stood above him.

"That's just it, Frank; it was all blind. Everything was black or white back then. Life's not like that."

"Well, my life is like that," he replied, standing up and crossing his arms in turn. "You're either with me or you're against me, a patriot or a turncoat. You're my personal patriot, Margaret."

"Not any more," Margaret remarked, glaring up at him. "You went through a breakdown, remember? You couldn't bear the thought of my being an engaged person, and went completely out of your mind when I became a married person. And look at what you're doing now!" she cried, throwing up her arms. "You're unstable!"

He frowned, taken aback by her outburst. After a time, he replied with as calm an air as ever.

"I can be stable. Please, Margaret. We'll be a team. You can keep me stable and I'll keep you fit."

Her face turned red and she clenched her jaw.

"What do you mean, keep me fit?"

"Well, Margaret," he began, fidgeting with his hands, "you were in the best shape of your life because of our… nightly exercises. You're still shapely now, of course, but just a tad softer—and just as beautiful." He leaned closer towards her with every word. "We could whip you back into shape in no time—starting right now."

"How dare you insult me, Frank Burns!" she raged, resisting the urge to slap him silly. "The only whipping that should happen here is of you for your off-color remarks!"

"Are you saying you still have that horsewhip?" he replied quietly, blanching and rubbing the back of his neck. "I still have that riding crop you got me for my birthday, you know."

"You oughta whack yourself with it every time you open your mouth, Frank!"

"If that's what it takes for you to give me another chance, Margaret, so be—"

Her finger moved to his mouth to silence him. Instinctively he opened his mouth and began sucking on the finger, until it was wrenched away by a disgusted Margaret.

"Get out, Frank!" she roared. "Get your grimy—"

"This is my tent, Margaret," he replied matter-of-factly, sitting down on the bed and folding his hands on his lap. "You came to my tent to see me. That just proves that-"

"I was coming here for my clothes! Now, get your meat hooks off of my stuff!"

"Of course, darling—"

"And don't call me darling!"

Margaret looked positively murderous as Frank shifted uncomfortably on the bed, his hand reaching to touch something he'd sat on. It was then that he held out a tentative hand with a pair of underwear hanging from his finger.

"Here's your panties, dear…"

"Gimme that!" she shrieked, grabbing the garment. "How dare you come to Korea presuming that I'm going to leap back into your arms! Not on your life, buster!"

"Please reconsider this, Margaret," Frank begged, standing up and possessively grabbing her arm. "I can't live without you."

She held her free fist up threateningly so that it lingered beneath his chin.

"Let me go, Frank."

His grip didn't waver. He looked right at her, his eyes resolute.

"No, I won't, Margaret. Didn't you hear what I just said? I can't live without you."

"If you don't let go of me right now, Frank, you'll wish you weren't alive!"

Immediately he closed his mouth and let his hand relax and fall from her arm. Frank stared at Margaret as she proceeded to jam her lingerie and clothing back into her suitcase without another word or glance towards her former lover. As she escaped the tense situation, she slammed the door in Frank's face but strangely enough, Frank didn't so much as flinch. Major Houlihan didn't see this odd behavior. She also didn't see the single tear sliding down Frank's cheek.

A tear slipped out of Margaret's eye at the sight of Hawkeye Pierce and B.J. Hunnicutt working feverishly on the pulseless body of Charles Winchester. She'd been feeling terrible ever since she'd seen Major Winchester's wound and this dire situation was pushing her to her limits. It was all her fault that this had happened! She recalled meeting up with the major after they'd finished operating on the first round of casualties earlier this same day. She'd returned early from her leave, but not early enough to help them with the patients. Instead, she'd learned too late of Frank's intentions for her… and himself….

"Major Houlihan," Charles Winchester stated, giving the nurse a little bow as he headed towards the Swamp from post-op. She was still carrying her suitcases but there was no jeep in sight. Winchester thought it was odd.

"Do you need me in the O.R.?"

"Not at the moment," he replied. "The wounded are all recovering in post-op."

"I'm sorry, Major," she said. "I had every intention of assisting. I came back as soon as I heard that the ceasefire was over."

"But you just arrived," Winchester replied. "You haven't even unpacked yet. Speaking of which, how was your anniversary trip?"

"It was perfect," she purred. "Massages, sake, steam baths—and I even took a trip to a spa."

His eyebrow rose with interest.

"I trust you found a companion for such… activities," he replied.

"Oh, he's just a colonel I knew from several years ago," she said dismissively. "I hadn't planned on meeting anyone in Tokyo, but he just so happened to be staying in the hotel room next to mine."

"Will you be seeing your colonel again?"

"Nah," she said. "I like being single—answering only to myself, not worrying about what he's thinking. Speaking of which, why the hell is Frank Burns here?"

"Ha," Charles said with an exhalation of breath. "Apparently he decided to pay the 4077th a little visit for the express purpose of wooing you."

"So that's why Colonel Potter was so eager to send me away," she said, staring off into the distance. Charles spoke once more.

"I only wish that I could have escaped his brand of idiocy before he'd opened his mouth. I do believe that listening to him speak actually diminishes the I.Q. of the listener."

"Ha," she said with an unreadable expression, wondering how much Winchester knew of their past relationship. His breadth of knowledge on the subject was soon revealed.

"Of course," Charles added, "in your case, that loss of I.Q. was completely reversible, or perhaps you're immune to it."

It was then that Charles remembered Frank's vow of suicide, and his stomach suddenly felt hollow.

"Have you… spoken to Colonel Burns, Major?"

"Unfortunately, yes," she spat. "He accosted me right when I got out of the jeep. Ugh. If he hadn't nabbed me right when I got here, I probably would've been able to assist you on your last patient."

"Ah. I presume you will not be rekindling a relationship with him," Charles replied, feigning mild interest.

"Not on his life," she replied matter-of-factly. "Hopefully he's gotten the point and will go back to his stateside job."

"So you informed him quite clearly of your disinterest in reuniting."

"Yes," she asked, looking both suspicious and intrigued at the questioning. "Why?"

Suddenly Pierce and Hunnicutt were strolling towards Charles and Margaret. They greeted her with hellos and quickly noticed the shade of white that Major Winchester's face had turned.

"Winchester, you're as white as a sheet," B.J. commented.

Margaret turned to look at him.

"Charles, what's wrong? You were fine a second ago."

"Was it something you ate?" Hawkeye chimed in.

"It's Colonel Burns," Charles began.

"So you ate him? I can't think of a case where cannibalism was more warranted. Thank you, Charles." Hawkeye stuck out his bandaged hand for Winchester to shake.

"Ha ha; very funny, Pierce," Winchester retorted dryly, his countenance still grave.

"Speaking of which, why didn't anyone tell me Frank was coming here?" Margaret blurted.

"Wait—you mean, you talked to him already?" B.J. said, his voice suddenly solemn.

"Yes. I told him off once and for all," she replied confidently. "Can you believe the nerve of that man, coming all the way over here just to try to win me back?" She ignored the looks of disintegrating comfort on their faces as she continued her rant. "He actually told me that he wished he was a widower! The lipless scoundrel!" Her diatribe ceased at seeing the blood-spattered cast. "Hawkeye—what happened to your hand?"

"That's not important right now; finding Frank is. I'll tell you about my hand later," Hawkeye muttered, shaking his head. "So, when did you last talk to him?"

"What's this all about?" she countered. "Since when do you care about Frank Burns?"

Hawkeye sighed, his shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world sat upon them.

"Since he vowed to off himself if you should turn him down."